


Once Upon a Time in the Western Approach

by alamorn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: The Western Approach has two things to recommend it: No one would to think to look for Hawke there, and they get to run a new con in every tiny town they cross through. Varric wouldn't say it's agoodtime, but it could certainly be worse.





	Once Upon a Time in the Western Approach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeoplePeel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/gifts).



> Not quite the Western AU you might have wanted, but I hope you like it anyway

The sun was a hammer and the ground was the anvil and he and Hawke were the bits of hot metal being squished between the two, and he was so hot he was losing track of his metaphors and he’d never really wanted to live in Orzammar until today but he suddenly, very badly, wished the Tethrases had never come to the surface.

“I just want you to know," he said, flat on his back and squinting up through the paltry shade of the twisted little tree they'd found, "that if I could sell you out to get out of the sun I would do it in a heartbeat."

"That's fair," Hawke said. She paused for a moment, and he could hear her breathing. It was ragged, though they hadn't moved in ages. It was _so hot_. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. When they got up, he was sure that anyone tracking them would be able to see where they'd lain from the outlines of sweat. "I'd do the same," she finished. "You know, this is not where I saw my life going."

"What, you thought being Champion would be all parties and champagne?"

She huffed a laugh. "Well, _yeah_. What's the point, otherwise?"

"In my next biography," he said, "that's gonna be it. You'll take breaks to lounge artfully in...silk dressing gowns."

"Will anyone feed me grapes?"

"I'm sure," he panted, "Isabela could be convinced."

"Mm," Hawke said. They took a moment to imagine it. Kirkwall got hot in the summer, but the Hawke estate was well ventilated, and the stink of Lowtown only rose up on the _really_ bad days. There was plenty of cool stone to lounge on, as well as the cellars, and an ice box.

"And no one...will ask me any questions," he continued, barely able to focus, "about things like Chantries or explosions or mage rights."

"I like mage rights," Hawke said.

"I know. I like not getting punched in the face."

If he'd managed to loll his head over to look at her, she might have nodded, looking mournful. As it was, there was just another moment of quiet.

"It's too damn hot to sleep," Hawke complained. "If you'd let us get horses, we could have been in town by now."

"I don't trust 'em," he said. "You're not getting me on one, and I stand by that."

"Fine," she said. "What are we playing in the next town?"

Isabela had dropped them in Orlais despite everyone's misgivings, and they'd headed west, for the open skies and sand that burned religious fervor away. There were no Chantries in the deserts of Orlais, and no one to recognize the Champion of a Marcher city-state hundreds of miles away. Anders had headed for Thedas, and the Warden-Commander he trusted. Merrill was with Isabela still, as far as Varric knew, and enjoying the sea-faring life. Aveline was still in Kirkwall, muscling her position past her known association with Hawke. It wasn't like Kirkwall could turn aside qualified help, not after the state they'd left it in. And Fenris was somewhere on the coast, hopefully not ripping hearts out of chests, but who really knew?

As terrible as Orlais was, seeing it with Hawke wasn't so bad. Since they were passing through towns so fast, they were running cons and playing characters and having as much fun as they could.

"Rivals?" he said.

"We did that last time," she said. "What about...fuck, it's too hot to think. Um, couple beset by ill-fortune. We were robbed. I'm pregnant."

"No one'll buy it," he argued, though not very passionately. They _were_ a couple beset by ill-fortune, after all, or at the very least a pair, which was close enough. And he _did_ like when Hawke hung off of him, pretending to be a doting wife. It was good for the ego, to have a beautiful woman on his shoulder, batting her lashes at him. The ever-present grin of getting one over on everyone else just made it better. "Everyone knows dwarfs have trouble getting pregnant, even if you keep it in the species."

"That's why it's such a tragedy!" she said, animated enough that she propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. She was better to look at than the scrubby branches of the scrubby tree, even bright red with sunburn. "We'd been trying for years and now that we succeeded, I might lose it from the stress."

He heaved a sigh, half for the dramatics, half from a hope that the air around them might move. His _lungs_ felt sweaty. "If we get made, it's on you."

She laughed, flopping back onto the ground. "What are we calling the niblet? If we've been trying for years, we'll have a name picked out already."

"Or we might not want to jinx it."

"Isabela!" Hawke said. "She'd be delighted to hear we named our fake child after her."

Varric had to laugh at that. "Alright, alright, how far along are you?"

He glanced over to see Hawke meditatively rub a hand over her flat belly. "Three months."

He pushed himself up to his elbow this time, and reached over and laid a hand over Hawke's on her belly. It felt a little weird, but he powered through. "Isabela," he said, solemnly, "niblet. Nugling. Child of my loins and my heart. Don't you worry. Papa will make sure we get through this."

Hawke knocked his hand away, laughing. "You're gonna give it away if you talk like that."

"Wanna bet?"

She sat up and met his gaze. He did love how she always rose to the bait. "Five copper that you give us away."

"Ten that they never buy it in the first place."

"Deal."

They shook on it.

 

They made it to the town just as it was starting to get dark. It was a mining town, like most of what filled Orlais' deserts, but one of the larger ones. They'd stay a few days, if they could.

When they crossed the first house made of sandworn wood, they both shifted. Hawke made herself smaller, her eyes larger. She looked wan and afraid, and the strength of her shoulders was almost easy to miss. Varric slid a hand around her waist, turning solicitous.

The found the tavern easily enough -- in towns like this, it was always the busiest place. There was nothing else to do at night, other than drink and bemoan the lives that had led to living out in the middle of Maker-forsaken nowhere.

Varric helped Hawke into a seat at a table. She played helpless better than he'd ever have guessed, holding onto his wrist and staring beseechingly up at him as he left to get them drink and whatever food there was on offer. If he was good, he'd only have to pay for the first round.

"Whatever's on tap, and a water," he said, making sure to glance back at Hawke frequently. She curled in on herself, arms curled protectively around her stomach. If he hadn't known, he might have been convinced.

"Water's a rare order," the bartender said. He was a ruddy faced Orleisian, with a big mustache that might have been fashionable ten years ago. Well, they probably hadn't gotten the news.

"My wife's pregnant," Varric explained, leaning forward. You had to lean forward, to draw them in. Made it feel confessional. "We were robbed a few days back, though, so if you have anything strong to settle _my_ nerves..."

"Pregnant?" The man stared him blatantly up and down. "Don't hear much about dwarfs getting babies on humans."

"Well," said Varric, letting his voice go flat and his eyes hard. "It wasn't easy, but we had a lot of fun trying, I'll tell you that."

"Right," the bartender said. "Well, here you go."

"Another ask," Varric said. "Is there somewhere we could stay the night? We can pay, though not much..."

"Someone'll have extra space, I'll spread the word," the bartender said, sliding the mugs more forcefully in Varric's direction. Varric missed Corff, suddenly, more than he generally did.

Varric took the drinks back to the table, sliding the water into Hawke's hands. She took a sip without checking the contents and swallowed with a look of distaste.

"Water?" she murmured, leaning into him and hiding her face in the crook of his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and winced when she dug a finger into the sunburn on his neck.

"You _are_ pregnant," he whispered back. "Wouldn't want to blow our cover so easily."

She snorted, and the puff of air should have been unpleasant against his burned skin, but it sent a shiver not worth investigating down his spine. "Of course not," she said.

It only took about twenty minutes for the miners to start gathering and for Varric to start spinning their tale. He was right, they didn't have to buy their own dinner, in the end. Or the second round. Or the third. Hawke stuck with water, though she made a face with every drink.

The problem, Varric reflected as they settled in to sleep on a miner's floor, with this cover was that it depended on the kindness of others, so he felt bad about taking advantage. When their covers played on the worst of what people had to offer, he could take their money without guilt. But when a town turned out to support them, doing their best to make them comfortable and a few even pushing some money at them, to help them recover from their mugging, he felt like a scoundrel.

And not a fun one, like he tried to be. Just cruel. Maker's sake, a few of the women had started giving Hawke maternity advice!

She'd taken it with wide, staring eyes and a fixed smile, so she hadn't liked how this cover had worked out either.

And besides, he wouldn't admit this in the light of day, but he liked touching Hawke too much, liked having people think they were together, liked being able to call her "dearest" and "sweetheart" and "wife." It was embarrassing. It was unsustainable. It would make things awkward if she found out.

And just to punish him, as they settled in, Hawke spooned up against him and pulled his arm over her, holding his hand over her belly. "For the cover," she murmured sleepily.

"Oh," he said and splayed his fingers, felt the gentle curve of her muscular stomach, thought about a baby with Hawke’s eyes and his hair. "Of course."

Neither of them won their bet, but Varric felt a little like he’d won, anyway.

 

The next town, they played rivals, and they played it faster. Hawke went in first, to make a splash and spend money and take up space. The next day, Varric followed and they "ran into" each other at the bar.

"You!" he shouted from the door, and Hawke turned insouciantly slow on her seat, leaning back against the bartop with a grin on her face. It was an expression that always called answering glee from Varric, but he fought it down. "I thought I smelled your stench."

Hawke took a showy sniff of her own shoulder and had to shake her head. Neither of them were at their best, admittedly. "I don't know how you could pick it out in this crowd."

Varric spread his hands wide, and says, “Gentlemen, please, check your pockets. This…” he puts on a sneer, “ _vagrant_ is a thief I’ve followed across the Approach.”

He paused while they patted their pockets and noticed that Hawke has expertly lifted most of the purses in the room. When they started to mutter, he strode forward and grabbed her with a show of roughness. She allowed him to pat her down with her hands up and her eyes rolling. When he found nothing — all stashed somewhere he’d come back for later — she threw her hands down and shoved him away.

“He _has_ been pursuing me,” she said, “but I am no thief. I tire of your slander, _Rutherford_ ,” she snapped and he almost broke character and laughed. Of course she would call him after Cullen. “I challenge you to a duel. When I win, you will cease following me.”

“When _I_ win,” he corrected, “I’ll drag you to justice by your hair.”

“At first light,” she said, and flounced away. When a man stopped her at the door, she gave him an amused look and bent his finger back so far he went to his knees.

When she was gone, he went around and talked quietly to every individual, promising many things he didn’t intend to stand by. Those of them that still had money tended to give him a few coins. And those that didn’t left and came back with friends.

By the time he left, his pockets were heavy with the coin he’d talked out of the miners.

When he got to the campsite, he cracked his neck and settled down next to her. “Where’d you stash the purses?” he asked.

She grinned at him and waved a purse at him. “Got them all right here.”

“Damn, Hawke,” he said, impressed. “I didn’t even feel them.”

“To be fair,” she said, laughing, “that was the shittiest pat down in the world.”

He had to shrug. He hadn’t tried very hard.

 

In the morning, Varric went first, and drummed up the crowd. When Hawke rolled in, wide brimmed hat low over her eyes for dramatic effect, Varric walked out to meet her.

“Now,” he said, “this town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”

She almost broke. It was a valiant effort. The corners of her eyes crinkled as her mouth curved furiously downward into a fixed grimace. She snorted a little, tried to exaggerate it into disdain rather than amusement.

The actual duel was nothing compared to that, and besides, it was a mess. Neither of them owned rapiers, let alone knew how to use them, so they used outsourced swords from generous, or at least bored, miners. Varric’s was so dull that it was more of a pry-bar than a blade, which was well enough. They ran through a few wild swings and thrusts and one or two poorly executed parries until Hawke, dramatically, went down.

“Woe!” she cried, panting showily, so that the farthest audience could see it, Varric’s pry-bar blade pinned between her ribs and her arm. “I must uphold my side of the bargain! I did it! I’m a thief! And you’ll never find where I hid your money!”

“You’re overselling it,” he hissed, amused, then, louder: “Once I’ve taken you to justice, you’ll admit it quick enough!”

The crowd murmured angrily. And then, before they could turn and realize they could bring her to justice themselves, he hoisted her up, twisted her arm behind her back, and frog-marched her out of town.

“This town ain’t big enough for the two of us,” she kept repeating and laughing to herself. She dropped her voice into a bad mimicry of his own and said it again. “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us! _Varric_ ,” she said. “We’ll never be able to share a city ever again. It just _won’t be big enough_.”

“To be fair,” he said, dropping her arm once they were far enough away, “that town wasn’t big enough for _one_ of us. That town wasn’t big enough for the people it _had_. That town wasn’t big enough to take a shit in.”

She punched him in the shoulder, beaming. “It wasn’t big enough to swing a skinned cat.”

“Or lay down full length.” He chanced a look over his shoulder and figured they were far enough to start circling around to the stashed money and throw off any potentially angry townsfolk.

Hawke walked backwards in front of him so she could look at him while she continued. “Not big enough to bring Fenris and Anders to. Not big enough for Isabela’s boots. Not big enough for a rage demon, let alone pride.”

They continued until they reached the money, and then they kept walking, in pleased, companionable silence. Nowhere to go but away. For once, it was almost comforting.

 

The next day they found a thin stream. Varric rested his sore feet on the sandy bottom of the creek. The water wasn't truly cold, but at least it was cooler than the air. He could hear Hawke drop her things behind him, and then she was sitting beside him, pulling her own boots off.

"Ah," she said, wiggling her toes. "That's the spot."

"You know what's really terrible?" Varric asked her, cracking his back and trying to stretch out the soreness of his muscles. Why in the world did his _sides_ hurt? That was just unfair.

"That the hicks in that town barely had enough to make it worth it to rob them?" she asked, leaning forward to examine her toes in the water. Blisters still peppered them and she prodded one that doubled the size of her pinky toe and made a face.

"Well, that too," Varric admitted. "But I'm actually enjoying myself. We've lived such a life of deprivation that this is fun now. I've got no weight on my back, I've got good company, and my boots are off, and I'm happy with that."

"Oh," Hawke said, making a face. "That _is_ tragic. Varric...remember, you're a city boy."

"I think I'm country now," he said, not able to keep the smile from his face. "Listen, I don't think a city is big enough to hold me now. I need nothing between me and the sky but air."

She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, face a mask of grave concern. "I can't tell under the sunburn, but you're probably feverish. You're not making sense."

“No,” he insisted, “I’m a changed man. Search your heart, Hawke, this is not the most miserable you’ve ever been.”

"And what a high bar that is!" she laughed, leaning forward to scoop out some water and dampen the back of her neck. Her hair curled with the wetness and he found himself looking at it for too long, the burnt and peeling skin, the coarse shaggy hair, the bump of her bones. Honesty welled up uncomfortably in his throat and he swallowed it back.

"I would bet," he said instead, "that this is the happiest you've been since you moved to Hightown. The air was too thin up there, couldn't support any kind of good belly laugh."

She licked her cracked lips and there was a twitch of an expression -- a grimace? A smile? -- and then she smoothed it out into her habitual grin. "You're sundrunk, Varric," she said, "and I'm sorry to say it, I really am, but it's much less fun than regular drunk."

"Ouch," he said, throwing his hand to his chest, then wincing and pulling it away when he smacked his sunburn. "Hawke," he said, "dearest. Darling heart. You wound me."

"Ah, you're right," she said, laying back and pulling him down with her to roast in the sun. "About it all, though I can't say I agree about the company. This dwarf I'm traveling with just doesn't seem to know how to shut up."

"You love it," he said, grinning. Their pockets were heavy and he was, against all odds, happy, and Hawke, against all odds, was by his side.

"Maybe," she said, half laughing. "But you'll never hear me say it."

"Oh, that's fine," he reassured her, unable to keep a straight face. "I can talk enough for the two of us."

She groaned and smacked him lightly, then sat again and took a long drink from her waterskin before dumping the rest over her head. She shook her hair out, showering him in lukewarm water, then turned and stared down at him. Her expression was very serious. His spirits sank.

"Varric," she said, and then dropped her voice into a mockery of his, "This town ain't big enough for the two of us."

He snorted. "It was a good line."

"It was _not_ ,” she said, but she was laughing.

"It got the audience! It was a good line!"

"What would your editor say if she knew that your only standard of quality was the masses?"

He rolled his eyes at her. "She'd say, 'Keep making me money, Varric, and you can write whatever twaddle strikes your fancy.'"

Hawke shook her head and got to her feet. With a sigh, Varric followed, since it seemed their break was over. "The state of literature today," Hawke said, over-enunciating "literature," "is truly a disgrace to the art form."

Varric scoffed and splashed her with water.

She yelped and shook her head, flinging water into his face. When he wiped it from his eyes she was looking at him, soft around the eyes. “Varric?” she said. “I’m glad it was you.”

Well, if they were doing honesty… “Couldn’t think of a better person to get sunburnt all to hell with,” he admitted.

 

It couldn't last forever, of course. In the next town, they checked the news board -- it would have been a Chanter's Board in a larger town, but there was no Chantry for it to stand before. "APOSTATE CAPTURED!" it screamed. "THE SCOURGE OF KIRKWALL WILL FACE HIS CRIMES IN VAL ROYEAUX."

They traded flat looks. "To Val Royeaux?" Varric asked.

Hawke sighed. "Time to save the day once more."


End file.
